


Let's Go Get Lost

by alexysmichele



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Road Trips, Romance, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-15
Updated: 2012-05-15
Packaged: 2017-11-05 11:08:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/405723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexysmichele/pseuds/alexysmichele
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is bored. Lestrade is on holiday. John can't take it anymore.<br/>Or John and Sherlock take a little road trip and bad things happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let's Go Get Lost

Wait for it. Any moment now.

“Bored!” Ahh yes. John was supremely impressed. He’d been expecting the declaration for hours.

“Bored!” Another muffled complaint from the sprawled pile of limbs on the fading sofa.

John ignored him. He’d decided this was the best course of action. That is, until Sherlock left him no choice. But for now, he’d remain blissfully ignorant of whatever was plaguing his infuriatingly brilliant flatmate. Not that it would be a leap to guess why Sherlock was left a whining heap of blue silk and discontent. They hadn’t had a case in three days and there was little chance of getting one for a week or two. But, blissfully ignorant, remember?

John settled in his armchair with tea and a newspaper, reveling in the relative calm while he could. At the rate they were going, he would be running Sherlock boredom interference within 20 minutes. He needed to steel himself for whatever antics the detective threw his way.

A huff of annoyance came from the general direction of the sofa. Sherlock flopped on his side, facing the doctor. “John,” He could feel Sherlock’s glare burning holes through his newspaper.

“Sherlock,” John sighed. And there went his peace, slipping away into nothingness. “Find something to do. An experiment. How often do I encourage you to fill the flat with toxic fumes and questionable substances? Or you could rearrange your Mind Palace. Make some sense of that brain of yours.”

John heard a muttered oath. “No need to be rude,” he remarked. “It was just a suggestion.”

“Don’t be an idiot, John. I need a case!”

John flipped the newspaper down and peered at Sherlock, stifling a laugh at the image before him. The consulting detective was cocooned in his robe, curled in a tight ball. He scowled at John mulishly, lips pouted into an appealing rosebud. _Ladies and gentlemen, the world’s only consulting five year-old._

“Really, Sherlock, you’re acting childish,” John rolled his eyes. “If you’re so desperate, go down to the Yard and pester _them._ ”

Sherlock scoffed. “You and I both know I won’t be allowed anywhere near a crime scene with Lestrade gone.” _As if that’s ever stopped you,_ John thought.

“Oh now surely you aren’t going to begrudge the detective inspector his well-deserved holiday?” John chided. They both knew an unsaid ‘…from you’ hung in the air.

“It’s hateful,” Sherlock spat, leaping off the sofa. “What could he possibly do on vacation for _two_ weeks? Where is the appeal in that?”

“I don’t know, relax, have fun, get away from the pressures of work. Some of us enjoy that, you know.” _Am I really in love with this madman?_ The thought seemed to be a mantra lately.

“Dull,” Sherlock had reached his pacing stage by now and was moving frantically about the flat. He looked at John and pounced on him predatorily. “Entertain me!” he commanded, hovering above John, leaning on the arms of the chair.

“Oi, Sherlock!” John flinched back slightly, trying to ignore the rush of heat he felt from the detective’s close proximity. “There’s this thing called personal space and you’re invading mine!” He pushed Sherlock back gently, carefully avoiding eye contact.

Sherlock huffed. “Fine!” And with that, he shed his blue dressing gown, grabbed his coat, and left in a flurry of black wool and palpable annoyance.

It took John two more days, a minor kitchen explosion, and tongues in his tea kettle before he snapped.

“Alright!” He stormed into Sherlock’s bedroom, speaking over his flatmate’s screeching violin. “We’re leaving. I can’t handle your madness.” He pulled random clothes from the closet, trousers and shirts flying. Sherlock drew a particularly high-pitched squawk from the strings of his instrument as John piled the clothing into a travel bag.

“Mycroft has arranged a car for us. We’re going out of town until you have a case.” He herded a protesting Sherlock out of his room and down the stairs.

“I hardly see why this is necessary, John,” Sherlock crossed his arms and glared moodily at the black sedan waiting for them at the curb. “I’m perfectly capable of keeping busy. I’m fine.”

John snorted. “Sherlock, you replicated the Hiroshima bombing in our kitchen. I would not call that _fine_.”

“Don’t be absurd. I was simply testing the reactions of different chemicals when combined. It was an experiment. How was I to know it would have such a volatile reaction?” Sherlock smirked, his look speaking volumes. He knew precisely how the chemicals would react. “And I though Mycroft was sending a car?” The detective sneered over his brother’s name. “Where is the driver?”

“Now you’re being absurd. One does not go on a road trip with a chauffeur,” John chuckled at the mere thought of being toted around the countryside by one of Mycroft’s minions as he put their bags in the car. “Let’s go!” He ushered Sherlock into the vehicle and took his place in the driver’s seat.

The silence was heavy as they made their way out of the city, buildings and crowded streets slowly turning into grassy fields and rolling countryside. Sherlock was pouting, gazing out of the window and occasionally shooting off frantic texts on his phone. John assumed they were directed toward Mycroft. Probably threats of what Sherlock would do to him for allowing John to arrange this. John tried to suppress a smile, the corners of his mouth turning up minutely. He knew he hadn’t outsmarted his genius flatmate but at least he wasn’t putting up too much of a fight. He was sure Sherlock had realized by now that this trip wasn’t just to keep him out of trouble. The man hadn’t slept for any significant amount of time in days and John didn’t even want to think about what he had, or rather _hadn’t_ eaten.

“I really think a break will be good for you, Sherlock,” John tried making conversation. “You’ve run yourself ragged these last few cases. You’re far too pale and a bit skinnier than I’d like. It’s a miracle you haven’t been ill or dropped dead from exhaustion.” The detective remained stubbornly silent, his only acknowledgement indicated by the slight tightening around his mouth as he pursed his lips.

“I know you’re angry but you’ll have to deal with it. I’m a doctor, so it’s only natural for me to worry, but you _are_ also my friend. I care about your well-being, believe it or not,” John couldn’t keep the hint of sarcasm from coloring his tone.

 Silence from Sherlock.

John sighed and flipped on the radio to fill the void with music. A song from his years at uni rang out and he started singing along, tapping his fingers against to steering wheel to the beat. Sherlock could sit there and mope but he was at least going to try to enjoy this road trip.

His energetic jam session was abruptly interrupted by a burst of static and then the frenzied strains of a violin. He glared at Sherlock. “Hey! I was listening to that!”

“Please, John, your taste in music is appalling,” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Just because you wouldn’t dare lower yourself to listening to anything besides ancient, weeping violins does not make my taste appalling.”

“ _Classic._ Don’t be stupid.”

“Fine, _classic._ Doesn’t make a difference. Vivaldi is hardly suitable road trip music!”

Sherlock scoffed and went back to pouting but he was secretly impressed, and yes, surprised, that John recognized the virtuoso’s music. He could scowl and give John the silent treatment all day long but he couldn’t deny he enjoyed having the former army doctor in his life. He was the least boring person Sherlock knew. And despite his disdain for trivialities such as _emotions_ and _sentiment,_ he felt unquestionably…fond of John. How inconvenient. ****

That didn’t, however, alter Sherlock’s current annoyance with John. Softened it a bit, perhaps. He knew he meant well but what he needed was another case. Not a break. Ridiculous. ****

“I don’t get sick,” Sherlock wasn’t looking at John and he barely caught the muttered words.

“’Course you do! You are human too, no matter how much you pretend not to be,” John sounded cheerful but Sherlock could sense the underlying tension. John was worried.

“You needn’t be bothered, you know,” Sherlock said carefully. “I rarely get ill. You should know that by now.”

“And you still don’t get it. You’re my friend. I care about you,” _Just ignore the fact that I seem to be harboring less-than-platonic feelings about you,_ John added silently. Honestly, he was surprised Sherlock hadn’t realized it by now.

Sherlock allowed John’s statement to roll around in his mind. He should be accustomed to John’s constant mothering—and wouldn’t that term just grate on him? _I care about you_. Wasn’t that unusual? People didn’t _care_ about him. They thought he was odd. Inhuman. A freak. The taunts never bothered him until John had come into his life. For some peculiar reason, Sherlock felt slightly nauseous at the thought of John being influenced by the insults, believing them and leaving.

“I…appreciate it, John, but you don’t—you shouldn’t feel obligated…”

 “No, Sherlock, I’m not sure you understand,” _What the hell. Maybe this way he’ll actually get it._ John couldn’t believe he intended to do this while he was driving. “I’m--,” He was cut off by a muffled pop and the distinct thump-thump-thump of a flat tire. The steering wheel shook and the vehicle veered slightly off the road. John brought them to a stop and muttered a string of curses. Of course the tire would blow out.

Still grumbling to himself, John set himself to the task of fixing the tire. Sherlock leaned carelessly against the side of the vehicle, watching him with a smirk on those lips.

John scowled. “You could help, you know!”

“Deleted,” Sherlock waved his hand as if flicking the suggestion away. Instead, he observed the doctor while cursing himself internally for becoming so sentimental and vulnerable. It wasn’t like him and he detested the weakness.

“Deleted. You’ve deleted how to change a tire?” John looked at Sherlock in exasperation. His flatmate just looked at him insolently. “Well, sorry mate, that’s not changing a thing. You can help.” He tossed a wrench in Sherlock’s direction, wincing when it clattered on the ground and skidded a few feet from the car.

“I have better things to do than muck about, fixing vehicles.”

“Like what?” John demanded, hands on his hips. He scowled.

 _Like categorize you and this and how you look at me when you believe I am not watching and how it makes me--_ he shuddered internally over this-- _feel._ Out loud, Sherlock simply muttered, “I’m thinking,” and earned a whack on the shoulder from John.

Fifteen minutes later and the spare tire was secured, John looked smug, and Sherlock was once again glowering sullenly, rubbing ineffectually at the black grease staining his purple shirt. John nearly swallowed his tongue as Sherlock tugged at his clothes, making the already tight shirt strain against his chest. _Damn the man and his ridiculous good looks._

 “Let’s get going…again,” John cleared his throat and wiped his hands on a bit of cloth he’d found in the trunk, leaving traces of grime from the tire. “If you’ve stopped pouting, I saw a sign a bit back. We can stop for food and if you behave, I’ll let you deduce the waitress with no comment.” He raised an eyebrow, lips twitching, hoping to entice the detective.

“Fine,” Sherlock tried to suppress his smirk but his eyes betrayed his glee at the prospect of releasing his scathing remarks without John interfering.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Married young and got divorced, no children, aspiring to be a model but it won’t work out. She’s far too short and a few years past modeling prime, I’m afraid. Working as a waitress to support her drug habit as well as a lavish lifestyle she can’t afford. It won’t last long as waitressing could hardly be bringing in enough money. She’s seeing at least two men, one whom she cheated on her ex-husband with. Oh and her roommate has a ginger housecat,” Sherlock rattled off his deductions at top-speed, not bothering to keep his voice down. They were sitting in a small restaurant, surrounded by teenagers on dates and families with small children. The smell of fried food and coffee permeated the hot, stuffy air around them. John bit his tongue to avoid chastising the detective and continued eating his meal. He’d promised. Besides, Sherlock still never failed to amaze him and John suspected if he opened his mouth, a string of praises would come out instead of a rebuke. Best to keep quiet, although he did love the almost-smiles he got whenever he stroked Sherlock’s already inflated ego.

Sherlock’s cool eyes roamed about the establishment, frowning slightly as his gaze fell upon a family with a little boy a table over.

"Is he drunk?" Sherlock cocked his head and looked at the toddler with a speculative gleam in his eye.

Had John heard his madman of a flatmate correctly? "What?"

"That child. The way he stumbles about, jabbering on in broken sentences and slurring. He appears to be drunk," The look on Sherlock's face suggested that John was being incredibly dull.

"Sherlock, the kid can't be more than two! Of course he's like that. He probably hasn't gotten a grip on walking yet," John had to bite back a chuckle at the detective's observation.

"Don't be absurd, John," Sherlock smirked. "It's simply a matter of balance. I was quite capable of standing on my own two feet without falling over by that age. And I was certainly more coherent than that!"

John shuddered to think of a two-year-old Sherlock Holmes. All he could picture was a toddler in the detective's patented purple shirt and tiny trousers, holding a magnifying glass over a murder victim. Frightening indeed. "Somehow that doesn't surprise me. I imagine you came into this world deducing the doctor who delivered you."

Sherlock turned his gaze on John, staring intently. “You wouldn’t be far off.”John tried to not shift in discomfort at the avid scrutiny but refused to break eye contact.

When Sherlock’s gaze turned more heated, John wasn’t sure he was seeing correctly. He flushed slightly, wondering what Sherlock was playing at. Warmth shot through him, the knot of desire tightening low in his belly. John unwittingly leaned forward, drawn to Sherlock.  He decided then and there to once again attempt to confess his feelings. If the look Sherlock was giving him said anything, perhaps it wouldn’t go unwelcome. And worst case scenario…well, he didn’t want to think about it at that very moment.

John licked his lips. “Sherlock, I need to tell you something,” He took a breath, still holding Sherlock’s intense look. “I seem to be--,” At that moment, the little boy from the table next to them came stumbling over, babbling in the gibberish only toddlers and their mothers seemed to comprehend. He held out a hand to Sherlock and looked up at him expectantly. The moment between the two men broken, Sherlock watched the child curiously and held out his hand. The boy dropped a handful of soggy chips into the detective’s palm and clapped gleefully. Sherlock’s icy eyes widened and he wrinkled his nose in distaste but managed not to frighten the toddler with some kind of sharp retort. The boy’s mother hurried over, apologizing for her son and smiling ruefully.

Sherlock stood quickly, tossed a few bills on the table, and strode out of the restaurant. John trotted after him, wondering what his hurry was, all while lamenting another interruption to his attempt at talking to Sherlock.

“I’m driving,” stated Sherlock, as soon as John was within earshot.

John came to halt next to the vehicle and shook his head. “No, no I don’t think that’s wise. Especially as you don’t know where we’re going.”

“Don’t be silly, of course I know our destination. Remember who you are talking to, please.”

\-------------------------------------------

“We’re lost.”

“No.”

“Sherlock, yes. We should have arrived by now.”

“No.”

“Just let me check the map—”

“No!”

“Oh, now you’re being ridiculous—“

“I have no need for a map. I know precisely where I’m going.”

“Hah. Clearly,” John pulled the map out in hopes of finally getting them on track.

“Stop!” Sherlock snarled.

“No. This is me openly disregarding your absurd no map stipulation,” Sherlock snatched the map from John, causing the car to swerve, and crumpled it into a ball, tossing it out of the open window. John gaped. “You are such a child! Was that really necessary?”

“Yes.”

John sighed. There was no use in arguing with him.

In the distance, thunder rumbled and John realized belatedly that ominous looking clouds were roiling violently in the sky. _Oh, you have got to be kidding me._ He couldn’t believe the turn of events. Flat tire, interfering toddlers, they were lost (whether Sherlock would admit it or not), and now the approach of what appeared to be a raging thunderstorm. It was like something out of a bad comedy. Or horror movie. At this rate, their car would break down at any moment and an ax murderer would chop them to bits and stuff them in the trunk.

John glanced over at Sherlock and let out an undignified squeak when he realized the detective wasn’t even watching the road. He was instead texting furiously, which explained why they were currently veering left and right in the lane. “Sherlock!” he shouted and made a grab for Sherlock’s mobile. “Are you trying to get us killed? Watch the bloody road, _please!_ ”

Sherlock relinquished the phone. “Relax. I’m quite capable at multitasking,” John raised his brows in doubt. “We’re close to our destination, since you didn’t ask. If we’re lucky, we’ll beat the rain.”

As it turned out, they didn’t beat the rain. It came pouring down in sheets of gray, the windshield wipers working overtime to keep up with the deluge. How Sherlock managed to find their turn in the downpour, John didn’t know, but within minutes they were navigating a long, bumpy, muddy lane that led to the cottage Mycroft arranged for them to stay in. The engine whined as they drove through the quicksand-like mud. And then they stopped. The tires spun and mud flew around them.

John closed his eyes and let his head fall back. _Is this some kind of cruel joke?_

“We’re stuck.”

“I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, the world’s only consulting detective, how staggeringly obvious that statement is,” John shoved open the car door and stepped ankle deep in oozing mud and rainwater. “We can walk. It’s not far and it isn’t likely that we’ll be able to get the car out in this.” He gestured to the rain currently soaking him through.

By the time they reached the safety and warmth of the cottage, they were drenched, shivering, and covered in mud. They shuffled into the entryway, shedding their dirt-caked, waterlogged shoes and coats before moving to the kitchen. John tried not to stare at Sherlock, but it was difficult to ignore the shirt plastered to his chest, outlining every detail. When he glanced up and met Sherlock’s eyes, he went still. Tension sizzled between them, nearly tangible in its intensity. _Maybe now would be the time to tell him, yeah?_

“Oh, this is ridiculous,” Sherlock muttered under his breath before grasping John’s face and planting his lips on the doctor’s. For a moment, John stood frozen, not responding to the kiss. _Sherlock Holmes is…kissing me?_ He quickly snapped out of it, not caring about the absurdity of the situation and moved closer to the detective, tangling his fingers in the curls at the base of Sherlock’s neck.  John moved his lips with deliberate pressure, reveling in the soft fullness of Sherlock’s mouth. He parted his lips slightly and the detective’s tongue immediately invaded, exploring John’s mouth with slick precision, before deepening the kiss to a tangle of tongues, teeth, and heady breaths. Sherlock tasted of mint, nicotine, and something uniquely _him._ It sent sparks of pleasure rushing through his body.  John let out a soft moan and gripped Sherlock by the hips, pulling him closer. Both men groaned at the contact but broke apart slowly, breathing heavily. At that moment, John decided Sherlock was entirely right. Compared to this, this urgent, demanding, heated passion, _breathing was boring._ He was dimly aware that they were both still wet and covered in mud.

John puffed out a shaky laugh. “What exactly was that, Sherlock?”

Sherlock, looking thoroughly disheveled and debauched with his rumpled curls and flushed cheeks, raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Do I really need to explain this to you?” He leaned in and pressed a kiss to John’s neck, nibbling lightly. John shivered.

“I mean--,” he hummed when Sherlock nuzzled behind his ear and caressed his hips. “What brought this on?”

“I was growing weary of waiting.”

“Wai—You knew?” John pulled away from Sherlock’s embrace. “You might have said something sooner!”

“Might have,” Sherlock brought John back to him and pressed a kiss to his lips. “Now, would you kindly shut up so we can continue?” With that, he pushed John against the nearest wall and ravished his mouth while simultaneously attempting to rid the doctor of his sodden jumper and shirt. John grasped the lapels of Sherlock’s jacket and shoved it from his shoulders, leaning forward to kiss the hollow of his neck. He continued pressing his lips to any exposed skin until Sherlock gently pulled back and shed his damnably sexy purple shirt. Only in their trousers, both men gazed at each other interminably before Sherlock’s attention was drawn to the ugly pink scar on John’s shoulder. He brushed his fingers over it lightly before running his hands— _those hands—_ over John’s chest and sides to the small of his back, applying pressure until John was pressed chest to thigh against Sherlock. They shuddered at the skin to skin contact. Lips found each other once again and heat overtook them. John allowed his hands to roam lower, resting at the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers. Sherlock pushed his hips forward, encouraging John to hurry.

John had his hands on his belt when a deafening crash of thunder rattled the cottage and plunged them into darkness. He let out a huff of breath and rested his head against Sherlock’s chest. _Un-bloody-believable. Now? Of all times for the power to go out, it has to be **now?**_

He peered up at the detective, trying to make out his features in the inky blackness. Sherlock let out a frustrated groan and John lost it. He collapsed against Sherlock in a fit of uncontrolled laughter. He felt Sherlock’s deep chuckles reverberate through his chest.

“This is incredible. Brilliant, really,” John snorted.

“All is not lost, you know,” Mischief tinged Sherlock’s tone.

“Hmm?”

“We’ll just have to go by touch.”

At that moment, John decided maybe this trip hadn’t turned out so bad at all.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This started as something a bit different. The story got away from me and did what it wanted to. Hope you like it :)  
> 


End file.
